What was on the wall that day.
The sky after a thunderstorm. Washed.
My mother's lap, age four, after a fall. She did not tell me to stop crying. She held me until I stopped.
My therapist remembers my dog's name. That's how I know I picked the right one.
My friend brought me to the hospital when I couldn't see straight. She drove slow. She talked the whole way.
Grateful for the way bread smells when the bakery opens early. Whole block, all morning.
The night my father came home from his last day of work. He sat at the kitchen table and ate cold meatloaf. He looked relieved.
A child waved at me from the car next to me at the light. I waved back. We waved until the light changed.
First generation in my family to read for pleasure. Sometimes I just stand in bookstores and look.
My daughter calls me when she's happy. Not just when she needs me.
My dog wagging her tail in her sleep.
I made a friend at sixty-three. I thought that was over. It is not over.
My son sends me photos of the moon from his city.